


I say muchos gracias and adios (bye bye)

by Popeee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hotels, M/M, Pining, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 13:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popeee/pseuds/Popeee
Summary: It’s fleeting at first; a barely-there brush of lips, amidst a fumbling of keycards and cases.





	I say muchos gracias and adios (bye bye)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iridescent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescent/gifts).



‘Are you loving and leaving me Arthur?’ Eames asks, his voice coloured with mock-hurt. 

Arthur meets his eyes in the mirror, clever fingers knotting his tie. From his vantage point on the bed, Eames can see the twitch of a dimple, ghostly in the half-light from the bathroom. 

‘I’m definitely leaving you.’ 

‘Bastard.’ Eames says, without intent, closing his eyes again and burrowing gladly into the sheets. 

Arthur squeezes the back of his neck. 

‘Goodbye, Mr Eames.’ 

Eames simply grunts in reply, feet already seeking out the delicious expanse of empty bed. He doesn’t have to have deal with the special purgatory that is Charles de Gaulle for another four whole hours. 

-

It’s fleeting at first; a barely-there brush of lips, amidst a fumbling of keycards and cases. They both try to be quiet, to thump around in the darkness of unfamiliar hotel rooms as courteously as possible. 

It’s strange. Eames has never really bothered with mornings. He’s never minded leaving, or being left. It can be bittersweet, sometimes, in certain moods, on certain days. He can never stay though; he’s always needed the rhythm of travelling, of moving, to lull him. 

Scratching his itchy feet, his mother always says. 

But there is something he decides, grazing a kiss to Arthur’s nape in smoggy Shanghai. Something almost more intimate than pressing Arthur into walls or sofas or sheets. Something new and tender and utterly irresistible. 

-

Arthur is sleepy-eyed but definitely awake, watching him traipse back and forth to the bathroom so Eames gives him a hearty smack on the arse on his way out the door. 

-

‘But Eames,’ Arthur sighs out, gazing up at him beatifically and looking for all the world as if he really is lying on a bearskin in front of a fire instead of in a Holiday Inn in Stockton. ‘I need you.’

Eames shoulders his carry on. ‘So does England,’ he replies, carefully schooling his features, but the effect is ruined somewhat 

For a few moments they just beam helplessly at each other and Eames lets himself look, really look, until someone’s phone squawks and the world tilts back onto its axis. 

-

Somewhere along the line their little partings become more varied; Arthur blearily promising horrible deeds to his person if Eames steals all the little shampoo bottles again, and Eames carefully picking up Arthur’s discarded shirts from the floor. 

Sometimes Arthur will hang the Do not disturb sign on the door or leave a hastily-brewed mug of tea on the nightstand. 

In Bangkok, and still spectacularly fucked from the night before, Eames places two paracetamol, juice and a lopsided stuffed elephant from the hotel gift shop on the floor next to Arthur’s head, which is half-hanging off the edge the sofa. He’s got one sock on, Eames’ tie is looped around a wrist and there’s dried come all over the inside of his leg. 

Eames very nearly does miss that flight.

-

He would never admit it, but sometimes it’s what he craves most, in the endless hours on not-quite-flat flatbeds, the cabin around him restless but quiet. 

He loves the (half) light of day. 

He relishes digging his fingers into Arthur’s ribs, tickling dimples and laughter out of him, somehow allowed in these drowsy, nothing hours. 

He’s excessively silly; blowing wet raspberries on Arthur’s stomach, pretending to eat his toes. 

Arthur (though inevitably more soberly) acts strangely too, in the sacred no man’s land between night and day, between tearing each other’s clothes off and endless airports and faceless hotels and work, work, work. 

Perched on the side of bed, fully dressed and with a suitcase at his feet, he’ll run his fingers gently across Eames’ face; tracing the slopes and planes of his features, silent and expression unreadable. Eames will break the moment by biting down on his finger as it gently brushes the dip of his mouth, and Arthur will laugh and pull away.

On the best mornings, he’ll pad back to bed showered, suited and brilliantined, to wait for his taxi. He curls his lovely, long fingers in Eames’ hair and grumble good-naturedly about Cobb or Aeroflot or the state of their hotel bathroom. Eames half-listens, mhm-ing and appreciatively butting Arthur’s fingers with his head. 

-

Often enough Arthur will wake with him (always far too compos mentis for arse-o’ clock in the morning) and direct Eames to all his lost possessions. 

‘Don’t forget your bathing suit,’ he’ll mumble from under the duvet; eyes sleepy and hair everywhere. ‘I hung it out over the shower for you.’ 

And when Eames has finally found everything, stuffed his pockets with miniature shower gels and Arthur has made him double check he’d taken the right passport (one time, fucking hell), he’ll reach for Eames expectantly. 

‘You, Arthur, are very, very, spoilt’ Eames tells him, and then proceed to kiss him everywhere; across his lovely cheekbones, his barely-freckled nose, his eyelids. 

Sometimes he’d count every finger and toe, bestowing a kiss to each and informing him sternly that he expected them all to be there next time. 

He always gets carried away, distracted by the delicate insides of his wrists or his milky collarbones, pressing his lips to everything he can reach until Arthur, wriggling and breathless, will shove at him and tell him to go, go, you’re really going to miss your flight. 

Alright, alright. See you soon.

See you soon. 

See you somewhere bloody warmer. Be good. Go back to sleep. 

Eames!

I’m going, I’m going. Look, see me go. Pip pip, cheerio! 

There’s something addictive in this; this frantic need to touch and kiss and catalogue everything. To have Arthur in his arms, knowing he’ll have to let go. To leave and not know when or where or even if. 

Later, he dawdles with the smokers outside the departures terminal; taking deep breaths of icy, nicotine-filled air and watching the last stars fade over the car park. 

It’s intoxicating.

-

‘Sorry, sorry. Go back to sleep.’

An apologetic hand passes gently, briefly over his head where whatever had hit him and woken him up. 

There’s another muffled thump and the sound of a drawer being opened and closed and then a warm, all-too brief pressure against his cheek. He feels the blankets being tucked more securely around his shoulders and the soft click of a hotel door. 

Eames rolls over and presses his face into the other pillow. 

-

‘Come with me to Lahore,’ he whispers, looming, teasing, licking the shell of Arthur’s ear and biting down hard. ‘I’ll buy you a goat curry and you can practice your shitty Urdu.’ 

‘Fuck off,’ Arthur says mildly, through a yawn, in Urdu. 

Eames laughs and rams his head into Arthur’s shoulder, nibbling his ear and bleating. 

-

‘Friendliness and welcome; satisfactory.’ 

Eames sticks his head round the bathroom door, indignant. Arthur makes a show of colouring in the moderately smiling smiley with the complimentary pencil.

‘I say you were extremely satisfied, you prat. One of us is going to end up having to pay for those pillows for a start.’ 

‘Ah, now, cleanliness, needs improvement, I think.’ 

‘Right, that’s it,’ says Eames and pounces on him, wet, naked and covered in shaving foam. He pins Arthur’s wrists to the bed with one hand, and ducks his head, pressing his mouth and teeth to every part of Arthur he can reach; the fingers of his free hand digging mercilessly into the soft, secret spot between ribs and hip. 

‘Stop, stop, stop,’ Arthur wheezes out at last, laughing uncontrollably. ‘Elephants, elephants.’ 

Eames does stop then, hovering above him, grinning. Arthur looks wrecked already, damp and flushed and smeared with shaving foam. He glares at Eames. 

‘I am not likely to recommend you to family and friends, fuckface.’ 

-

In the outskirts of Manaus, his mother calls just as he’s stepping out of the shower. He fumbles with the phone with wet fingers, wedging it between his ear and his shoulder whilst he grapples for trousers.

He listens to her familiar, comforting chatter as he shuffles blearily about the darkened hotel room. The season’s lambing, the bitter internal politics of village committee to raise money for the church roof, the judging irregularities at Crufts this year, the rain, the rain, the rain. He fishes his underwear off a lampshade. 

‘And where have you been, dear?’ she asks him at last, voice warm.

‘Oh, here and there, Mummy, scratching, you know,’ he says, evasive, the bullet graze on his bandaged hand twinging guiltily. He tells her instead about this enchanting, forgotten place; the gentle-faced manatees that peep out of weeds with huge, soulful eyes, and the water-lilies that cover the lakes, big enough to hold a person.

He pictures her, perched on the embroidered sofas that are covered in short white fur, and gazing out of the rain-washed window, imagining cicadas and orchids and trees with flowers growing out of the trunks.

He chuckles, and promises to bring back things they both know probably won’t survive so far north.

It’s not until he’s winding through the muggy, darkened street, caught in the bustle of the stallholders setting up bright umbrellas, that he realises he never said goodbye to Arthur. 

-

It’s been raining since daybreak; cold, slanting sheets of rain that permeate coats and umbrellas, and whip hair into faces. The pigeons huddle miserably on their balcony, feathers damp and ruffled.

He frowns down at the blanketed lump, unmoving but for an almost imperceptible rise-fall. Crouching down, he lays a hand on Arthur’s back, mindful of the bandages, and rubs him gently into wakefulness. 

‘I’ve got to go now, love,’ he says, smoothing Arthur’s hair from his face. ‘You going to be alright?’

‘m fine’ Arthur slurs, only one eye open properly. His hand wiggles its way sluggishly out of the blanket, groping until it finds Eames’. Eames lifts it to his mouth to kiss. 

Eames glances at the clutter on the bedside table, at the assorted, unidentifiable innards of a PASIV, one of his own guns, as much continental breakfast as he could fit in his blazer pockets, and a skillfully distressed passport, constructed this morning on the bathroom floor. ‘You’ve got water and enough bananas and these croissant things to last you a year. Do you want anything else?’

Arthur simply squeezes his hand weakly in reply. Eames’ heart seems to clench in response, oh, God. He swallows hard, pressing his forehead against Arthur’s. 

‘Oh, my love. Four-fifteen to Schipol, alright? Next to a couple of screaming babies,’ he teases, adding gently, ‘I’ll see you soon, I promise.’

Arthur nods as if in slow motion, understanding, already drifting off and there’s nothing left for Eames to do but kiss him once more and go. 

If he has to stare very, very hard at the lift ceiling all the way down to the lobby, well, he’s the only one in it. 

-

‘Have fun at home,’ Arthur says blearily from the bed as Eames is turning to leave. 

Eames stares at him, uncomprehending, to where he’s sprawled across the sheets, rumpled and sweet and half-hard. 

Outside the adhan floats hauntingly over the rousing city.

‘At home?’ he echoes stupidly. 

‘In England? With your mom - I thought -’

‘Oh, right. Um, thanks. I will. I mean, I’ll probably just get stuck at Heathrow with all this so…’ He smiles awkwardly, lifting his suitcase; it’s full of cuttings and seeds, carefully labelled and wrapped in brown paper. He feels his cheeks flush in the dark in the hotel room.

Arthur just raises one eyebrow at him, bemused.

-

‘Stay!’ Eames cries, floundering like a fish across the mattress and flinging his arms dramatically around Arthur’s legs. 

‘Don’t go, don’t go,’ he pleads into Arthur’s thigh. ‘You can’t possibly leave me like this. I am ravished and ruined, and I’ll die at once if you do.’ He catches Arthur’s arm, and kisses up it noisily. ‘Come back to bed and-’ he cuts off at the sight of Arthur’s expression, startled. 

There’s such hurt twisted across his face Eames actually feels his mouth drop open. 

‘Arthur? What-’

‘Sorry -,’ Arthur cuts off, ‘I just- fuck.’ He lifts his hand, Eames’ own falling away, to scrub unhappily over his eyes. ‘Sorry. I’m just so fucking tired. I’ll - I’ll see you Lagos.’ And he’s gone, leaving Eames staring dumbly after him, still half hanging off the bed. 

-

Sometimes he can't think of anything to say at all; can’t do anything but press Arthur up against the tiles and kiss him over and over. He kisses him until the water runs cold and gates are closing and they’re both breathless. 

Later, Eames leans his forehead against the tiny window and watches the bed of clouds below them turn from milky-blue to pink and orange, thinking determinedly of all the different ways he will spend his payout.

-

‘I’m just saying,’ Eames persists, padding after Arthur across the vast expanse of their ridiculous suite, ‘If you’re on my flight you can change in Abu Dhabi.’

‘It’s all booked through, Eames.’ Arthur twists one of the many shower dials a little tentatively, hopping back when a stream of cold water shoots out of a side-jet. Eames reaches over and does some patient adjusting, before not-so-patiently crowding Arthur against the tiles and kissing along the pale of column of his neck. 

‘What’s booked through? Your connecting yak ride through the Karakoram?’ 

He sets his teeth against one of the blossoming bruises on Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur lets out a shaky exhale and trembles a little in his arms. Eames presses his advantage shamelessly. 

‘Did you that know Boeing won’t even sell parts to them anymore? They have to use Taiwanese copies.’ 

‘I’ll get there faster,’ Arthur says, determinedly not meeting Eames’ gaze.

‘Not if you die in a fiery mid-air explosion you won’t. Do they still say a prayer before take-off?’

‘No,’ Arthur lies petulantly. ‘And I can wash my own ears, asshole.’ 

‘No you can't. You’ve missed a spot here. And here. And here.’

-

Eames hovers at the foot of the bed, fumbling with the strap of his bag and chewing his lip. 

Arthur’s fallen back to sleep, curled peacefully around Eames’ pillow. 

He’d stands there, unable to move, for what feels like forever, phone buzzing repeatedly in his pocket. 

Eventually, inexplicably, he can’t do anything at all; just kisses the tips of his own fingers and presses them gently to Arthur’s head. Then he walks out the door and out of the hotel. 

He makes his flight in the end, but for once it’s small comfort. 

-

Eames steps out of the tiny shower, wet and cold but resolved. 

The time has apparently come when he would rather crawl back under a bedspread covered in corn on the cob motifs in a motel in Idaho than get on a flight to Mombasa. 

He curls up next to Arthur on top of the covers (and Christ on a bike, the more you look, the worse they get), reaching to where Arthur’s dark head is buried in the sheets. 

‘Anybody home?’ Eames says softly, passing a hand over sleep-warmed curls. 

No response. He sighs, and thinks very hard about beautiful, carved wooden balconies that overhang labyrinthine streets. He thinks about tuk-tuks and apricots, about Yusuf and the best drugs shillings can buy and the way the moths hang drunkenly on the jasmine at night when he opens his windows, flooding the apartment with sweet fragrance. 

‘Arthur?’ 

Silence.

Taking a deep breath, Eames says, ‘I know you’re asleep but I’m going to tell you anyway, because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep leaving you and I can’t keep being left.’ Under the blankets Arthur is still and quiet but Eames has started so he’ll finish. ‘I don’t want to go to Mombasa,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t want to be anywhere but with you.’

Nothing. Even the gentle little breaths seem to have stopped. All right, then he thinks. 

Numbly, Eames stands, ducks to graze a final kiss to the back of Arthur’s head and staggers out of the door. 

-

‘Where ya headed?’ 

Eames appraises his neighbour with red-rimmed eyes. She’s plump and friendly-looking, wearing a sweatshirt with some sort of cartoon duck on it. A trashy-looking novel and a packet of turkey jerky stick out of the seat back pocket. 

‘Mombasa,’ he says after a pause, thinking unkindly that she probably won’t know where that is anyway. 

‘Huh.’ Her brow furrows and she holds out the turkey to him. ‘Vacation?’ 

He shakes his head and after a minute she takes the hint and picks up her book. The shirtless cowboy on the cover looks a bit like Arthur, and he scowls at it. 

Please ensure you seatbacks and tray tables are in their full upright position and your seat belt is correctly fastened. 

He closes his eyes, determinedly thinking of his landlord’s crazy mother whacking Yusuf with her slipper. 

His little reverie is interrupted a minute later by bustling next to him, will they never leave. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ someone is saying brightly nearby, and oh hell and hot shit, his miserable brain is now so desperate he’s imagining Arthur’s voice too. He hunches in towards the tiny window, pressing his face into his balled-up suit jacket. 

‘Oh don’t worry about it, hon,’ 22B says cheerfully amid a flurry of commotion in their row. In the row in front of them, a child begins to wail, drowns out their chattering. 

‘That guy’s going to Kenya too. I wouldn’t bother trying to talk to him though, he ain’t very friendly.’

Eames does open his eyes then because if he really is going to have a nervous breakdown or be murdered by a Cobol agent on a Spirit flight at six in the morning then he might as well do it properly. 

He blinks and rubs his eyes, but he really must be losing it because Arthur is really here, wedged into the middle seat and smiling like a lunatic. His hair is a disaster and his collar is all crooked. He’s here, he’s here and the poker chip says so and Eames is going to build his mother a greenhouse and get a Spirit loyalty card. 

Before he can embarrass himself by doing anything more than twisting his fingers a little desperately in Arthur’s shirt cuff, the lady leans forward to ask Arthur, ‘So, whatcha doing there?’ 

Arthur turns to her, ‘I have some unfinished business to attend to,’ he says, cheerfully accepting a piece of jerky. 

-

‘What are you doing?’ 

Arthur turns from where he’d been leaning out of the French windows, wearing only a dress shirt, one hand curled loosely in the mosquito netting.

The mellow, late afternoon sun streams in, touching easels and piles of books and the leering fertility goddesses jumbled on the dresser. 

‘I woke up,’ he says sheepishly. The shirt he’s wearing - Eames’ own, he realises with a jolt - is buttoned up all wrong. 

Eames leans up one elbow, sheets pooling about his waist. ‘So I see,’ he says, conversationally. ‘But you are much farther away than I would like.’ 

Arthur ducks his head, to hide his smile and Eames can’t have that. ‘Then I will come back,’ he says simply. 

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tommy for the kindness and encouragement. The title is from David Brent's Freelove Freeway.


End file.
